


the door to your room was the door to mine

by Care



Category: Pitch Perfect RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Care/pseuds/Care
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dante was wrong. There's another circle of Hell, and it's Anna's ten-year high school reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the door to your room was the door to mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lescousinsdangereux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lescousinsdangereux/gifts).



++

++

Anna _thinks_ the first words out of her mouth when she sees the invitation are: "No way." The key here obviously is that she thinks, but she's not completely sure. It's possible she said some variation of "no fucking way" or "fuck no" or even "are you shitting me?". She takes the piece of cardstock from the pretty, scented envelope it arrives in and stares at it, half in disbelief. Ten-year reunion? No fucking way is she going to that. She's not even sure how they got her address.

But it's a different story when she FaceTimes home.

"Wouldn't it be fun, Anna?" her mom asks. "You can take a little vacation, come home. You haven't seen your high school friends in years!"

"It's sort of hard to keep in touch," Anna says, vague, thinking about her dusty and unused Facebook.

"Your brother went to his. He had a great time."

"We're not the same person, Mom."

And her mom gets sidetracked anyway, talking about Great-Uncle Paul's newest obsession—model ships in bottles, and asking Anna what she wants this year for Christmas. Her mom buys at least one thing for each person from the L.L. Bean flagship store in Freeport, so Anna asks for a new fleece-lined flannel shirt in blue. She wears her old one around the house so much that it's gotten worn out at the elbows, and it's frayed at the collar because she has a habit of turning her face into the fleece and rubbing it against her chin. Brittany's laughed at her for doing it before; Anna hadn't even noticed it was such a habit.

But that's that. Anna tosses the invitation on the kitchen counter, where it promptly gets buried under a stack of catalogues from The Company Store, back issues of _Vogue_ , and a pile of scripts she's nixed. The to-be-recycled pile. For when she gets around to it. Because she will. Definitely.

++

The best thing about being friends with Brittany Snow: she's got amazing ideas.

The worst thing about being friends with Brittany Snow: she's got amazing, but terrible, ideas.

Terrible for Anna's liver anyway. She wasn't the one insistent that the two of them should play Drunk Monopoly. She barely wants to play regular Monopoly. There's something about competitive board games that drives her nuts. It's the way other people seem to lose their fucking minds over it, like winning Pictionary is going to change their lives. It's not that Anna doesn't enjoy winning. She is, after all, a somewhat normal human being that functions with somewhat normal human emotions. She just hates the way other people _hate_ losing. So, no thanks, she's gonna pass on the six-hour _Lord of the Rings_ edition of Risk, no matter how cool the One Ring replica looks.

But Brittany's on Anna's list of Board Game People Exceptions, because Brittany doesn't go batshit nuts when she loses. Also, because she always wants to play the drunk version of whatever-it-is, so Anna ends up not caring either way.

Fun fact: Drunk Settlers of Catan is at least fifty times more fun than sober Settlers of Catan.

The main issue with Drunk Monopoly is that Brittany can hold her liquor better than Anna. After a few glasses of wine, Anna starts buying property because she likes the colors. Brittany's still actively trying to win the game.

"You landed on Boardwalk," Brittany says. "Pay up."

Anna nudges her hat piece with one finger. She's at the point where she's lying on the living room rug, her head pillowed on her arms. She takes a handful of paper money and flings it in Brittany's direction. "Money makes ze vorld go around, ze vorld go around, ze vorld go around!" she sings in a truly wretched German accent. Because that's a thing she does—launch into musical numbers when she's had a bit too much.

"Nice support," Brittany laughs, picking up the handful of rainbow money. She counts for a second, and tosses the extra back at Anna.

"Um, excuse you, I'm a professional. I still remember to breathe from my diaphragm." Anna makes a big show of doing it for Brittany's benefit—sucking air into the space beneath her ribs, trying to keep her shoulders still. It's harder when she's lying down.

Brittany gets unsteadily to her feet. Anna squints up at her. "More wine?"

"Thataway." Anna points in the direction of the kitchen. She rolls herself onto her face once Brittany's out of the room, pressing her forehead against the cool, smooth surface of the Monopoly board.

She hears glass clinking, and Brittany's footsteps on the kitchen tiles. Then:

"Shit!" and there's a heavy thud.

Anna turns onto her back and blinks uncertainly up at the ceiling. She should probably get up and see what's going on, but her limbs feel heavy. She drags her right arm up above her head experimentally, her hand flopping on her wrist. Hmmm. Like a puppet. Or a Muppet. Anna likes Muppets more. She did do that Ben Folds Five music video with Muppets—

"What's this?" Brittany interrupts Anna's Muppet reverie. She has a glass of wine in one hand, and something in her other. It looks like a card.

"I dunno." Anna doesn't move. She stretches out a hand. "Gimme." Brittany gives it to her. She brings it close to her face, until her vision blurs and she has to hold it away from herself again. "Oh, it's just my fucking high school reunion. Ten years! Because I'm old." She pauses. "Hey, how did you find this?"

Brittany sits down next to Anna, stretching out her legs and crossing them at the ankle. She's barefoot, and her toes are painted the palest blue. She looks faintly sheepish. "I, uh, might have knocked over some of your stuff on the counter."

"Drunk."

"You _definitely_ are."

Anna doesn't bother to argue the point.

"Are you going?"

She can't help it; she laughs. "You're kidding, right? No. Way."

"I think you should go."

"Last week you thought I should get a tattoo."

"You haven't seen these people in ten years. It might be fun." Brittany grins over the rim of her wine glass. It's nice, even though it makes Anna feel unsettled and funny, which is impressive through the haze of inebriation. "Come on. At least to catch up with your friends."

Anna feels around her for her phone, and holds it up. "I can call my friends. Or text them! Texty-text. It's the future now."

"Oh my god, you never call anyone. You dodge phone calls!"

"Not yours," Anna says.

"Not mine," Brittany agrees. "I must be special, huh?"

Anna snorts. "Dream on, Snow."

"I'll go with you."

"To Portland?"

Brittany shrugs. "Yeah, why not? I've never been to Portland. It sounds pretty cool," and that's the last thing Anna remembers.

As it turns out, it's a mistake.

++

She used to have a habit of late-night-emailing ex-boyfriends. Used to. Anna's mostly curbed it by now. Now she just emails Edgar long, rambling missives about how cool she thinks space is, but _Gravity_ was super fucked up, and how she thinks his filmmaking's evolved and what's the deal with Trader Joe's anyway? Is the food actually better? Because their produce blows. The best thing about Edgar is that he actually writes back, pretty seriously, and they get mired into this long conversation that makes her miss him in an abstract, theoretical way.

The emailing thing is extra bad when she's been drinking. Most people will drunk text or drunk call, but no, Anna drunk emails. They're never short either, but when have her emails ever been concise? The morning after Drunk Monopoly she opens her sent inbox to check if anything's gone out. She's hopeful that she just sent something to Edgar, rather than one of the other guys she's been with. Her tendency has led to more than one embarrassing apology ("No, I wasn't trying to argue why strawberry jam is better than raspberry jam—oh, well, _now_ I am").

She leans her aching head against her hand and stares at the screen. She only sent one thing, and it's not an email address she'd like to be seeing. Shit. She clicks on the email, her heart sinking low, and something falls into the pit of her stomach—like panic and horror rolled into one.

"No," she breathes, feeling her headache growing worse. "Fuck."

Not really the best way to get herself reacquainted with high school classmates again. Anna shuts her Macbook and groans into her hands. She needs to talk to Brittany. She needs Advil and water and a breakfast of something extremely greasy.

Anna's something of a go-getter at times, and she's going to make that happen for herself.

++

++

"I can still back out," Anna says, stabbing at her home fries a little too viciously. The scrape of the fork against the plate is almost too much for her. She takes another sip of orange juice. "...right?"

Brittany's expression's hidden behind a huge pair of sunglasses. She takes a bite of her toast. "Yeah."

"Will it look bad?"

They both poke their omelettes around their plates for a few seconds, considering. Brittany adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose. "I don't think it's going to look amazing," she says, diplomatically.

It's not going to look amazing is an understatement, Anna knows. It can hardly be good PR for her to ditch her own high school reunion—especially after she RSVP'd. Her hangover throbs against her temples, sharp and hot, knives against her skin. She drains her glass of juice.

"I guess I'm going to have to go," she says, giving up.

"It won't be so bad," Brittany adds. "You'll have fun."

"You'll be there with me, having the fun," Anna reminds her.

Brittany twists her mouth, thinking. "Oh. I did say that, didn't I?"

"Are you backing out now? That would be really uncool."

"No. I wouldn't." Brittany stretches her hand across the tabletop, rests her palm on top of Anna's fingers. It makes Anna feel twitchy and strange, the heat of Brittany's skin against her own. She's not going to examine that (lies; she's examined it before). "Let's go to Portland."

"Whoo, the most exciting city in America," Anna says, feebly trying for funny, and takes her hand away, setting it in her lap.

++

++

Flying's not her favorite. She used to be more scared of it before she was doing it constantly—flying to Germany, flying back from Germany, flying to London, flying back from London. Flying all the time. _Up In the Air_ helped. There was some guy—Anna doesn't remember his name, but he had nice eyes—who took the time to explain to her the physics of it. She got most of it. Some of the details went over her head, but Anna still thinks of him whenever she boards a plane.

By now she's got her pre-flight routine down. Curl up in the seat, clip on the belt, and put on her headphones. She's always got a book and a pack of gum. Anna makes sure to keep the sunglasses on until they're ready to takeoff. It's the takeoffs and landings that still get to her. She can't help the voice in the back of her head that informs her crispily that it's more likely that something will happen during those two times than during the rest of the flight.

"Hey, how's Billie?" she says to Brittany, trying to keep her mind off the impending takeoff.

"He's good. He's staying with a friend," Brittany says, all soft. "I miss him already."

"Good, good," Anna mutters distractedly.

She tries to keep her breathing steady as the plane starts taxiing down the runway, everything rumbling around them. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Brittany putting down her magazine, leaning over. Anna's white-knuckling the armrests, her heart rattling in her chest. In and out, Anna tells herself, trying to calm her breathing. Slow and steady.

"You look like you're about to puke," Brittany says. It's so unsympathetic that it surprises Anna into a bark of laughter.

"I don't puke," she says. "I'm just—concerned about my life."

Brittany pries up one of Anna's hands and holds it, loose, in hers. There's a bump as Anna feels the plane liftoff, the wheels leaving the ground. She clenches Brittany's fingers in her clammy palm.

"You fly like every month," Brittany says. Her voice is warm.

Anna glances over. Brittany doesn't look like Anna's squeezing the life out of her hand. Even so, she relaxes her grip slightly. Brittany doesn't blink. There's a stray blonde curl by her right ear, framing her face. Anna watches it bounce with the movement of the plane, ascending into the air.

"I know," Anna says. Her heartbeat's already plateauing. She's watched too many movies, ones where the planes explode just as they take off. It's always better once they get higher. "It's stupid."

"No, it's…" Brittany looks like she's trying to find the right word. "Cute."

"You're such a liar."

Brittany chuckles, unexpectedly throaty. "You can't take a compliment."

Anna feels herself flush. She releases Brittany's hand, opens her book up again. "Give me one you really mean and I'll accept it," she says, staring down at the page, not reading a word.

++

It's close to midnight when they land, what with the time change and everything. Even though it's barely 9 PM back on the West Coast, Brittany's yawning into Anna's shoulder as the wheels touch the ground. There's a light dusting of powdery snow on the ground when they walk out of the tiny airport to wait for Anna's dad. The cold air burns Anna's lungs as she breathes, dry and crackly. She thinks she's hallucinating the smell of salt spray in the air—the Jetport's still a little ways away from the ocean. She can't stop moving, all pent-up energy and nerves, the way coming home always makes her feel.

"Are you dancing?" Brittany asks. Anna can barely see her mouth; it's hidden behind a white knit scarf.

"Yeah," Anna says, and wiggles her hips, grinning. The word escapes her mouth like a puff of smoke, spiraling away into the dark.

Brittany laughs at her for a second. Then, she shrugs, and starts dancing too, next to her suitcase. Anna ramps hers up a little, getting her arms involved, bouncing to an invisible beat. She catches Brittany's eye and they dissolve into giggles. Like there's something in the air here in Maine, infectious.

They're interrupted by her dad pulling up in front of them, rolling down the passenger side window and hollering, "That's my girl!"

Anna whips around, breathless. "Dad!"

He pops the trunk and gets out, wrapping Anna in a hug that smells like pine and snow and her house—everything familiar and safe. She tucks her cold nose into the collar of his old winter coat and squeezes him tight. It's been a few months. Well, it's always been a few months, and they don't get to Skype as often as she'd like. He looks older, which gnaws at her, and she pushes it out of her mind. Her dad gives her a kiss on the cheek—scratchy from his stubble—and lets her go to give Brittany a hug.

The streets are silent all the way home, save for the occasional car. It's a quick drive—less than fifteen minutes—and Anna fiddles with the radio and stares out the window, the familiar setting going by. It's snowing harder now, the flakes dropping heavy and wet. She turns the late-night jazz down to a low hum. Her dad flicks the windshield wipers on and off with a practiced hand, stopping them whenever they start to drag along the glass and squeak.

"Maybe a snow day tomorrow," her dad says, turning the heater down. "Do you girls have any plans?"

"Sleep in," Anna says, and at the same time Brittany announces, "Explore!"

"Exploring sounds great. Banana, why don't you take Brittany into downtown?"

Anna turns around in her seat to stick her tongue out at Brittany. Like she's six. Brittany sticks her tongue back at Anna. Her dad pulls into the drive, easing the car to a stop.

"All right," Anna relents, opening the car door. "But not if we're snowed in. If we're snowed in, we're going to drink hot chocolate and bake cookies and watch TV in front of the fire. No arguments."

As if to prove her point, she nearly slips on a patch of black ice in the driveway. Brittany picks her way to the front door, cautiously moving through the snowy path and up the steps with her suitcase.

"See?" Anna says, once they've made it to the porch. "This feels like Christmas."

Brittany shrugs. "I can't argue with that, but at least we don't fall to our deaths in Florida."

"You have sinkholes," Anna says, opening the front door.

"Touche," Brittany mutters out of the corner of her mouth as they crowd into the hallway.

++

++

Her mom sends them to bed after bowls of chicken soup and a mug of tea. Anna's room is hot from the radiator, and she has to open her window up a crack to let some cold air in. She's almost forgotten how it jams though, and she slides it up carefully, nudging it into just the right space so it'll work. Her room is still mostly the same from high school, but there are more photos of her from red carpet events and official shoots and it's so fucking _embarrassing_ , like every time she comes home she ends up sleeping in a shrine to herself. It makes her look like the world's biggest narcissist.

She changes into pajamas and pulls on a pair of fuzzy socks, slides in underneath the heavy comforter on her twin bed. She's flipping through an old copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ when there's a knock on the door.

"Oh my god, this is adorable," Brittany says when she comes in. She makes an immediate beeline for Anna's dresser, and picks up a baby picture. "This is the fucking cutest."

"Shut up." Brittany looks pretty cute herself in her matching flannel pajama set with snowflakes, her hair pulled back. Anna's always liked her out of makeup—she forgets sometimes. Brittany looks younger. It makes her feel like they could have met anywhere. School, maybe. Auditioning for choir. Sitting next to each other on the first day. Anna can imagine it.

"Your brother's room is cute too. There are pictures of you in there." Brittany puts the photo back, and moves onto Anna's desk.

Anna grimaces. There's a picture of her and Michael at the beach when she's around 9, and their dad took it just as Michael dumped a bucket of water over her head. She's screaming her head off, and Michael is cracking up, and for some reason her parents decided to frame it. Because, as she claimed when she was little, they liked Michael more. It's not the most flattering photo. She's just glad that Jimmy Fallon or Ellen's people haven't been able to get ahold of it yet.

"Michael's room is freezing," Brittany says, sitting on the edge of Anna's bed. "Seriously, seriously cold."

"Stay here." Anna yawns.

"Where—the floor?"

Anna doesn't really think about it. She's already burrowed in, cocooned in warmth. "No, just get in bed with me." She blinks, realizing. "Um. You don't—I can sleep on the floor if you…"

Brittany gives her a long, considering look. "Bed's fine," she says, "if you don't mind sharing."

"I'm a really good bed-sharer," Anna says, dumbly, and immediately regrets it. What the fuck, she's a really good _bed-sharer_? She scoots back towards the wall, gestures. "Here."

She presses her cheek against the pillow, trying to ignore how her pulse feels suddenly fast. Brittany turns out the light and crawls in, pulling the duvet over her. Anna listens to her breathing, and the wind outside, and the sounds of the house settling. There's a little room between the two of them, mostly because Anna's wedged herself into the corner. The wall's cold against her back.

"You can get closer," Brittany whispers.

Anna hesitates. After a second she moves in, inching towards the dark shadow of Brittany. She stops when their shoulders touch. They lie in the quiet together, not saying anything. 

Brittany turns her face to Anna. "I can't remember the last time I was in a twin bed," she says, giggling a little, and the awkwardness between them dissipates. "It was so long ago."

"Are you insulting my bed?" Anna says, nudging Brittany's arm with her own.

"Yup."

There's some elbow jabbing—Anna—and some muffled yelps—Brittany's. Eventually Anna ends up with her forehead against Brittany's shoulder, their sides pressed together. She falls asleep like that, warm, listening to Brittany's soft snores.

It's still snowing the next morning when they wake up, and after breakfast they wrap themselves in about seven layers of clothes and go out to clear the steps and the walkway. Anna's out of practice with a shovel. The handle starts to dig into the palm of her hand after a few minutes, and she knows she's going to bruise there. Brittany's determined, her wool hat crammed low over her ears. Anna digs and hums—mostly Christmas carols—and Brittany starts singing along. They dig out most of the path to Angels We Have Heard On High and Silent Night.

"I can't feel my toes," Brittany says after half an hour. She's in an old pair of Anna's mom's boots, and Anna's wearing a pair of Michael's. It's awkward clumping around in the huge shoes, but at least her feet are dry.

"Hot chocolate and cookies," Anna says firmly. The path's mostly clear anyway.

It takes some trial and error to get the fire going in the woodstove. Brittany takes a shower while Anna's struggling with the logs and kindling and lighter. She's getting the hot chocolate mix and marshmallows out of the cabinet when Brittany walks in, barefoot, her hair still damp, with a towel around her shoulders. Anna's heart trips a little—it's the only way she can describe it—how it twists up in her chest so it's suddenly hard to breathe. She drops the package of mix on the counter, and fumbles to pick it up again. This whole thing, Anna thinks, was a mistake. She's so nervous about the reunion that she's reacting weirdly to Brittany.

Brittany leans over, close, her breath tickling Anna's ear. "I can heat up the milk if you want to shower."

"Thanks." Anna shoves the mix at Brittany. "Mugs are in the cabinet to the right of the stove."

"Go shower. You smell," Brittany grins.

Anna pops a marshmallow into her mouth and throws another one at Brittany's head. "You're one to talk."

"I just showered. I smell amazing." Brittany shoves her wrist beneath Anna's nose. "Smell," she commands, airily.

"I'm not gonna—"

"Okay, but your insult has no backing."

Anna sniffs. Brittany smells clean, sweet, like shampoo and flowered soap, and there's something beneath it. Faintly dusky and familiar, the way Brittany's skin has always smelled. Anna jerks backwards, unexpectedly breathless. Brittany puts a hand on her arm.

"I need to shower," Anna says. "I think I overdid it on the shoveling."

And when she gets out, after standing for nearly fifteen minutes beneath the hot spray, she does feel better. Brittany hands her a mug of hot chocolate and they watch old episodes of _The Office_ on Netflix, cozied up on the couch next to the stove. It snows all afternoon and into the evening, when it finally peters out. Anna thinks it's not the worst way to spend a day.

++

She tries not to think about the reunion too much. They've got a few days, and instead Anna takes Brittany through downtown Portland. They go to Coastal Maine Popcorn for samples (maple for Brittany, chocolate and sea salt caramel for Anna—though she was tempted by just how blue the cotton candy was), and browse through the shops for Christmas presents. Anna picks up a pair of earrings for her mom's stocking. Brittany goes for a paperweight carved in the shape of a cat.

"I like it," Brittany says, by way of explanation.

They wind their way back through Portland's snowy streets, lit by the orange glow of the streetlamps. Anna leads them to Street & Co. for dinner, the heels of their boots clicking against the brick walk. In the steamy, crowded interior of the restaurant, Anna nudges Brittany beneath the table.

"Are you trying to play footsie with me?" Brittany asks, not looking up from the menu.

Anna ignores her. "What are you getting me for Christmas?" she asks, putting a little whine into it at the end.

It's too dim to see, but she thinks Brittany goes a little pink. Probably just the reaction to the heat after coming in from the outside.

"Haven't decided yet," Brittany says finally.

"Cutting it a little close, aren't you?" Anna says. She found a few old albums on vinyl for Brittany this year, but she's left them in LA.

"Are the scallops any good?" Brittany asks.

Anna knows a deliberate subject change when she sees one, but it's Brittany, and they're having dinner in Maine, and no one's asked them to pose for a picture yet, so she talks about how amazing the scallops are instead.

(Afterwards, in the middle of a shared dessert of panna cotta, a gangly teenager with a mouthful of braces comes up with her iPhone and shyly asks if she can take a picture with them. It was inevitable.)

++

++

Getting a pimple on the night of her reunion is like a sign from God that she shouldn't go. That's Anna's interpretation anyway, though her mother's and Brittany's are less sympathetic. Her mom tells her she's being dramatic, which makes Anna feel all of fifteen again, worming her way out of attending some adult function. Brittany does Anna's makeup in the cluttered upstairs bathroom, curling her hair, and focusing intensely on her eyebrows. Anna squirms, used to the hours of sitting in a makeup trailer, but also overheating in the crowded little room. Brittany sticks three bobby pins in her mouth to hold them, and leans over the bathtub to force open the window. Anna curls a loop of her hair around her index finger, gazing at it dubiously. The room smells like hairspray, thick and cloying.

Brittany stands back to regard her, taking the pins from her mouth. "You look drop-dead gorgeous."

"I have a pimple," Anna says flatly.

"Oh my god, you're fine. No one can see it."

"Fuck this," Anna announces. "I'm just not going. We can stay home and watch a movie instead. Right?"

Brittany frowns. "Um, I did not come all the way to Maine to not go to this with you."

"This is dumb. I'm 28 and I'm single and I have a pimple—"

"And you're beautiful and famous and you have an Oscar nomination. I think it's going to be fine."

If Brittany has a point, Anna's not conceding it. She gets up to look at herself in the mirror, gently prodding at the pimple with her finger. It's enormous, but Brittany's done a good job of hiding it beneath makeup; Anna can barely tell it's there. She hopes the reunion is dimly lit at best. Anna spins around, and nearly collides with Brittany, also leaning into the mirror to look.

"Oof," Brittany laughs. She puts a hand on Anna's shoulder, almost on the back of her neck, her palm warm and heavy. "Sorry. Wouldn't want you to get a bruise before your reunion." She touches the point of Anna's chin gently. "That'd suck," she adds, tone soft, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

Anna's heart gives a furious thump. "Yeah." She swallows. "Thanks. I'm gonna go get changed. Meet you downstairs in twenty?"

"I hope you're bringing your A-game, Kendrick," Brittany says, peering closer at her reflection, and checking her eyelashes.

"Back at you," Anna says as she leaves.

It's not her best comeback, but she has bigger things to think about. She tells herself to breathe. She's been to the Academy Awards; this is just a high school reunion.

++

"How are these things supposed to go, anyway?" Brittany asks once they've parked in the hotel garage. The hem of her dress peeks out from beneath her coat—a dark, wine red.

Anna fidgets nervously with the car keys. "I don't know. Hopefully like the movies." She, on the other hand, opted for dark-wash jeans and heels. Her motto for the night: lowkey.

They exchange looks, both grinning at Anna's choice of words. Brittany suddenly leans over, her hair falling into her face, kissing Anna on the cheek. She barely misses the corner of Anna's mouth.

"For luck," she says.

"I'm gonna need it," Anna says, turning her face away. Her hands are shaking even harder now. Fuck.

She tries to muster up some enthusiasm as they approach the sign-in table by the open doors to the reunion. It's a futile effort. Madeleine Jakob's manning the nametags, and Anna goes cold all over at the sight of her. She can still remember the last fight they got into senior year—Madeleine and her vying for the solo in choir. It really wasn't her best moment. Anna tries to duck into a side corridor, but Brittany's got a grip on her wrist, tight and strong, and she steers Anna towards Madeleine with a steady hand.

"Anna Kendrick?" Madeleine asks, looking torn between incredulity and delight at the sight of her. She's gotten—well—she hasn't really changed, Anna notices. She's outgrown the baby fat in her face, but aside from that, it's still the sharp-looking girl Anna remembers.

"Hi Madeleine," she says, forcing herself to be cheerful. "It's great to see you."

"Oh my god, it's great to see _you_. I wasn't really sure you'd come. I thought you'd be busy filming. Too busy for little old Portland."

A quick jolt of irritance goes through her. "No. I'm taking a break for the holidays. Came home to have Christmas with my family."

"That's nice. You know, I see your mom all the time at the grocery store. She always says hi. She's such a sweetheart."

"Yeah, she tells me how she runs into people from Deering all the time." You're an actress, she reminds herself silently. "Hey, do you think I could get my nametag?"

Madeleine hands it to her, and eyes Brittany. "And your friend…?"

"Brittany," Brittany introduces herself, extending her hand. "Snow," she tacks on belatedly.

"I saw you in _Pitch Perfect_!" Madeleine squeaks. "You were so awesome."

"Oh, right, that movie that I have no connection to," Anna snarks, and Brittany lightly steps on her foot. Anna winces, but bites her tongue. She deserved that.

Madeleine turns back to Anna, giving her a onceover. "I don't know if you heard, but I got married last year," she confides in a rush, giggling a little. "To Eric Winslow."

Her mom might have mentioned it in passing, but honestly, like Anna pays attention. "I hadn't heard, actually. Congratulations. Wow, Eric. I wouldn't have guessed that. That's great."

"I wouldn't have either, but," Madeleine shrugs. "That's love. Totally unexpected. It definitely took me by surprise. Are you dating anyone? I haven't seen anything in US Weekly, but who knows." She giggles again, but she eyes Anna shrewdly. "It must be hard, working all the time. Doesn't leave a lot of time for dating. But you seem okay with that."

Oscar-nominated actress, Brittany is practically beaming at her with her bright-blue gaze, but Anna can't help the wave of inadequacy that crashes over her. It's stupid. It's so, so dumb. She's met the fucking president and Madeleine Jakob still manages to make Anna feel small and awkward, just like she did that time in homeroom when she said the drama teacher only gave her big roles because she had been on Broadway. Madeleine had the talent of making Broadway sound like a fluke, like anyone could have done it, like _she_ could have done it too, if only her parents had let her take a bus to Manhattan when she was 12. Anna knows better. She swears she does, but—

"I am," Anna blurts out loudly. "Dating."

Madeleine blinks coolly at her. "Really?"

Brittany's mouthing something at Anna in her peripheral vision, but she ignores it. "Yup," she goes on, holding her voice steady. "It's really serious, actually, but you know—we're trying to be private about it."

"Who?"

Anna's brain scrambles, tripping over itself for an answer. Later on she'll maintain that it was an accident, something she had no control over, but all she knows is that she blinks and her hand is in Brittany's. She's interlacing their fingers, her palm sweating.

"Very funny, Anna," Madeleine laughs. "Come on. Be serious."

"I am." Anna closes the space between herself and Brittany, tightening her hold on Brittany's hand. "We're dating. We've been keeping it quiet because we don't want to be hounded by the paparazzi." Her heart's beating rapidly; Anna might have a heart attack if this keeps up. She can't look at Brittany at all. She's too terrified of what she might find.

"There was a spark—during _Pitch Perfect_ ," Brittany adds.

"I didn't—" Madeleine starts, and stops herself. "Um. I guess… Uh. I'm happy for you?" Anna notes that she sounds anything but. If looks could kill, etc etc.

"If you could keep it quiet," Anna says.

"Yeah, of course."

They leave a bewildered Madeleine behind, and push in through the double doors. Anna's still clutching Brittany's fingers in a deathgrip, and Brittany drags her to a little round table as soon as they're inside. She's biting the inside of her cheek, as if to keep from smiling, which should be a good sign except that her forehead's all furrowed and she's looking at Anna weird. Anna swallows her compulsive desire to laugh inappropriately and folds her hands on the white tablecloth. She's going for demure, but she doubts Brittany's gonna buy that act.

"Hi," she says meekly.

"Hey," Brittany replies without emotion.

"Did I mention that you're amazing and I love you and thank you for coming to this with me?"

Brittany shakes her head, but she's grinning now. "Seriously, Anna? Dating? This is going to make it onto TMZ before the night is over."

"I panicked, okay? I'm not great on the spot."

"Improv, hello?"

"That's different," Anna says, not really believing it.

"You're so weird," Brittany says, warm.

"You're dating me," Anna mumbles. Her cheeks feel hot.

"Fake-dating."

"Fake-dating," Anna agrees.

Brittany sighs a little. "Okay. Just for tonight. I guess since we do this for a living, we can probably fool some people into thinking we're girlfriends, right?"

It's strange. It's exactly what Anna was hoping she'd say, but instead it makes her stomach turn over. She gives Brittany a quick grin that she doesn't feel, follows up with a mock-leer. "Thanks, baby."

++

It's probably not one of the worst things Anna's ever been to. There was this disastrous party she went to shortly after moving to Los Angeles—that honestly takes the cake for the worst event she's ever attended. The high school reunion turns out to be...moderately pleasant? It reminds Anna of prom in some ways, though it's better lit and there's an open bar. A big banner hanging over the front of the room says WELCOME DEERING HIGH SCHOOL, CLASS OF 2003 in bold purple letters. In the background there's a steady soundtrack of top 40 hits from the early 2000s. They find two empty places at a round table near the back of the room, a little shadowed, and Anna hopes that Madeleine Jakob has another place to sit. She's not sure she could endure all of dinner with Madeleine's chatter.

"I hope the food's good," Anna grouses uncharitably. Brittany kicks her ankle—hard enough to bruise. "Ow, Snow."

"So who's here?" Brittany asks, pulling her chair up close to Anna's.

Anna scans the room over the rim of her glass of white wine. "Um. Matt Kerry. He was the valedictorian. I think he went to Harvard? Uh, and over there's… Jesus, is that Eliana Hermann? Oh my god, she's lost a ton of weight." She takes a gulp of wine. "Eliana disappeared junior year and didn't come back until the semi-formal. Someone spread a rumor that she _died_ , but it turned out she was in rehab."

"That's awful."

"Yeah. She's really sweet, actually. Or she was."

" _Anna_???" she hears from off to her left, and she whips around from Brittany.

"Oh my god, Lauren," Anna manages to get out before she's wrapped in a suffocating hug. "I didn't know you were coming!"

Lauren tosses her curtain of dark hair over her shoulder and smiles. " I didn't know _you_ were coming. How the hell are you? Wait, don't tell me—busy, famous, gorgeous? You look amazing."

She says it in a way that's meant to be kind, but Anna just feels uncomfortable. She turns to Brittany instead. "Thanks. Lauren, this is my—" she falters. "This is Brittany."

"Hi, Brittany Snow. Anna's girlfriend," Brittany says, not hesitating, but Anna goes hot all over as soon as Brittany says it.

Lauren's thrown—just for a second, but Anna catches it. "Great to meet you. My husband Blake's getting a beer, but he'll be back. Uh. How did you two...meet?"

" _Pitch Perfect_ ," Brittany says easily. "We sort've danced around it for a while, but you can't deny that kind of thing."

Snow sounds like she's enjoying this, the rat bastard.

"It was fate," Anna says in her too-bright voice, the one she usually saves for interviews with the really stupid journalists. "We saw each other from across a crowded room."

Brittany shoots her a look. "I agree, babe. It was fate."

Brittany snakes an arm around Anna's shoulders, and Anna sucks in a breath. When Snow commits to a role, she really commits. Brittany plays with the ends of Anna's hair, grinning, giving Anna this look that's half-challenging, half-amused. Two can play at that. Anna leans over and runs the pad of her thumb beneath Brittany's eye, skimming her cheekbone. It feels almost like she's playing a role, sinking into someone else's life, but the hammering of her pulse tells her otherwise. Brittany reaches up a hand to grip Anna's wrist, holding her in place.

"Eyelash," Anna says, her voice low and humming and throaty, showing Brittany the dark lash on her fingertip.

"Thanks," Brittany whispers, her voice just as quiet. She lets go of Anna.

Lauren glances between the two of them. "...okay then. I'm gonna go look for Blake." She leaves, throwing them one last look.

Anna thinks she's blushing all the way up into the roots of her hair. She has to turn away from Brittany to get herself in check. "It's how I seduce all the ladies," she quips, pretending to dig through her purse.

"Consider me seduced," Brittany says, playing with one of her forks, her tone joking.

Anna drains her entire glass of wine. Awesome. She's gonna need ten more of these to survive the night.

++

++

Two hours later, and Mark Inoue won't stop talking about his doctorate work. Anna's gonna punch him or fake an illness or become _actually sick_ if she has to listen any longer to him go on about math. That's, at least, what she thinks he's still talking about. She lost track of the conversation about two minutes back, and he's just been monologuing at her ever since. The logical part of her brain knows that he's saying different words, but all she can hear is "math math math-y math math math, and for a change of pace, math." She drinks her water and glances around for Brittany, hoping to be rescued.

Brittany, who seems to have made it her evening's goal to accumulate as many embarrassing stories about adolescent Anna as possible. (It helps that Anna was prominently featured in their retrospective slideshow.) Brittany, who won't stop touching Anna—a hand on her waist, fingers on the nape of her neck. It's confusing as fuck, and it makes Anna deeply regret the fake-girlfriend thing (and just to show up Madeleine Jakob too, dumb; she should've just said she was banging Ryan Gosling).

Also, she's inadvertently given her high school classmates the juiciest piece of gossip since graduation. Anna Kendrick, dating a _girl_? What?

Anna finally sees Brittany chatting animatedly with Josh Pasternack by the dance floor (fuck, leave it to Brittany to find one of her ex-boyfriends). She tells Mark she has to go—sorry, but not that sorry. Brittany grins brightly at her when she approaches.

"I'm having the most illuminating chat with Josh," Brittany says, gleeful and just a little drunk.

"Illuminating, is it?" Anna says, giving Josh a quick glance.

He smiles at her sheepishly. "Hey Anna. Brittany was asking about _How to Succeed_."

No. No, no, no, no. "And you said…?"

"Only nice things, I swear."

She half-believes him. Maybe. Josh has always been nice. Kind of too nice and earnest. It was partially why she broke up with him their junior year. After the show ended, because otherwise it would've been a disaster. No one needed Smitty and Finch to be fighting while they were desperately trying to make sure all the quick changes went okay.

"Sweetie, could I talk to you for a second?" Anna says, taking Brittany's hand. "Excuse us, Josh."

Brittany's laughing, leaning her warm weight into Anna as they walk away. "You wouldn't believe the amount of dirt I have on you now, Kendrick. I should write a tell-all."

"I see blackmail in my future. What do you want from me?"

"Hmm," Brittany hums, considering. "Dance with me?"

Anna blinks. Missy Elliott's Work It is playing, and Brittany's already swaying to it, hitching her hips. Anna would be lying if she said it wasn't doing anything for her. She files that observation away for later, when she can turn it over in her mind in the quiet of her own room. For now she laughs instead, shaking her head. As much as she loves this song, it's just not happening.

"Come on, come on," Brittany urges, tugging at her hand. "Let's do this."

Lauren hollers from across the room. "This is my jam!" and everyone gathered laughs. "AK!" Lauren calls. "You and me—remember prom?"

"No fucking way!" Anna yells back.

Lauren ignores her, dancing her way over, bopping her head. "Let's show this lady of yours how we do it in Maine."

Shit, everyone's looking at her. Anna doesn't have a choice. She follows Lauren onto the dance floor, with Brittany whooping in the background. Thank God she's been fortifying herself with alcohol all night. She gets down to business, her and Lauren dancing up on each other. They both seem to vaguely remember the coordinated dance moves they made up in Lauren's basement to this song, the two of them staying up until 2 AM listening to the radio and watching movies. Lauren bumps into her a few times, but they get through most of it, even managing a haphazard bow at the end.

"Damn girl," Brittany says, catching Anna a little as she trip-runs off. "Can you teach me some of your sweet moves?"

"Shut up," Anna says. "Are you gonna dance with me or not?"

As if on cue, Work It segues into Ignition (Remix), and it's just fact that Brittany can't resist R. Kelly. She practically drags Anna back on. Brittany's got the whole song memorized, and she sings it into Anna's ear as they dance. It's crazy weird how hot Anna finds it, even with Brittany seriously saying things like, "Now it's like murder she wrote, once I get you out them clothes".

"This whole night was worth it just for this moment," she says to Brittany as the song ends.

"Like it'd be hard to get me to sing along to R. Kelly normally."

They sit out the next few songs, drinking water out of wine glasses, and laugh over Brittany's impressions of Anna's classmates. Anna kicks off her heels and, jokingly, drapes her legs across Brittany's lap. Brittany rests a hand against Anna's knee, tracing patterns through the denim. It's nice, Anna thinks, giving into the warm liquid feeling that's been lapping at her all night. It's almost as if Brittany's actually her girlfriend who's come along for her reunion, and the thought is enough to make Anna put her head against Brittany's shoulder, cuddling close. 

She's reached a serious new low. Getting a crush on one of her friends just because she hasn't been on a date in months.

Brittany presses a kiss the side of Anna's head. "Your friend Madeleine's watching," she says.

"God, I hate her."

"Here," Brittany murmurs with half-closed eyes.

The kiss is close-mouthed and sticky-sweet. Anna's legs go weak, and she very briefly has the thought that she's glad she's sitting but it's swept away in a rush of feeling. How soft Brittany's skin is, and the insistent press of her lips, and the way her nose bumps against Anna's cheek.

"That should shut her up," Brittany says, pulling back.

Anna touches her mouth, wipes away the lip gloss with a finger. Her brain hasn't been able to form a single coherent thought yet. It's a goddamn miracle because normally her brain never shuts up. She sneaks a glance in Madeleine's direction. Madeleine looks like she's swallowed something sour.

"Sorry," Brittany says, blushing.

"Right," Anna says.

They avoid each other's eyes. Anna puts her heels back on.

Brittany sets down her empty glass and gets to her feet when Nelly's Hot in Herre comes to an end. "One more dance?" she offers her hand.

"I—um. Sure."

The DJ puts on Eve 6's Here's to the Night ("Nice and slow for all of you out there"), and Anna might strangle him with her bare hands if she has the opportunity, but instead Brittany puts her arms around Anna's neck and they're slow-dancing like it's senior prom all over again. All they'd need are enormous corsages. Anna puts her hands on Brittany's waist.

"I forgot what a huge bummer this song is," Anna says in the silence between them.

"It's drunk sad," Brittany says, and Anna knows exactly what she means.

She notices Lauren and her husband Blake nearby, swaying together, tucked close. They look like they're not even here; they look like they're alone with each other on a beach somewhere, dancing, laughing, kissing. Anna feels jealousy like a dull ache in her chest.

"They're cute, aren't they?" Brittany asks, following Anna's line of sight.

Anna jerks her attention back. "Yeah. Hey, I think I need some air. I'll be right back."

"Anna—" Brittany says, but Anna's already stumbling off the dancefloor.

++

It's freezing outside, the brisk night air stinging her bare arms. Anna walks down the hotel drive and onto the sidewalk next to the waterfront, staring out at the dark sea and the boats bobbing in the water. She's a little too warm from dancing and the crowded room and it's nice to be out in the cold, breathing in the sharp salt smell of the ocean. She inhales deeply. She just needs a minute to get herself together and then she can go back inside. Deal with the rest of the night. Anna's got big plans for a pair of wool socks and reading Twitter on her phone in pajamas later.

"Hey," Brittany calls from somewhere behind her. "Did you know it's _extremely_ cold in Maine?"

Anna snorts, turning a little. "I've heard people mention that once or twice."

Brittany walks down with Anna's coat in her arms. She hands it over, and Anna takes it gratefully. The cold's gone from nice to numbing within minutes.

"You're a great fake-girlfriend," she says.

Brittany smiles. "Thanks. That means a lot coming from you, fake-girlfriend."

It feels like an opening, and so does the expression on Brittany's face. It looks like a question. 

So Anna asks. Rather, she says: "Hey, you kissed me."

"Yeah," Brittany says, staring down at her feet. "I did."

"I liked it," Anna says, surprising even herself.

Brittany squints at her. "Oh. I did too."

Well then. It just feels right in that moment. Anna crosses the space between them, a little hesitant, putting her hands on Brittany's shoulders. She kisses Brittany, or Brittany kisses her—it's unclear, and unimportant, because they're kissing. For real this time, Anna's hands getting themselves tangled in Brittany's hair, Brittany tugging Anna closer by the belt loops on her jeans. Anna leans up into her, gently biting Brittany's lower lip, her heart skipping when she hears Brittany's little breathy noise of surprise.

"I liked that too," Brittany says, lazily, drawing back.

Anna grins, kissing Brittany once, twice more. She feels lightheaded, her brain fuzzy. It's a pleasantly blurry feeling. She rests her head on Brittany's shoulder, her hand clutching one of Brittany's coat lapels. She's not quite sure what to make of this, but fuck it. Who cares.

"I was going to wait until Christmas," Brittany says after another minute, her arms wrapped around Anna.

"What?"

"It was going to be your present."

Anna laughs. " _What?_ But—how did you know?"

"It was kind of a gamble," Brittany says, shrugging. "And if that didn't work, I got you those boots we saw at the Grove last time."

"Wow, way to ruin my Christmas surprise, Snow."

"Surprise," she says, leaning in to kiss Anna again, full and deep. "Merry Christmas, Anna."

"Merry Christmas," Anna echoes.

++

**Author's Note:**

> So many people helped this fic into existence. I want to thank [sinandmisery](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sinandmisery) for their stunning Photoshop skillz and [unfinishedidea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unfinishedidea) for the gorgeous album cover. Thank you to [sexonastick](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sexonanstick) for their awesome beta-work, and thanks to [Kat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kindness) for the pun help and cheerleading and listening to me ramble. You are all wonderful people.
> 
> The title comes from Anne Sexton's poem, [I Remember](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-remember-131/).
> 
> [The very loose soundtrack is available here.](http://8tracks.com/thedoortoyourroom/the-door-to-your-room-was-the-door-to-mine)
> 
> Have the best of Yuletides!


End file.
